


The Long Road

by bees_stories



Series: The Long Road [1]
Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Case File, Epiphany, M/M, Sharing a Bed, UST, Wooing, candlelight dinner, kidnap, unexpected opportunities, you can't hurry love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-04
Updated: 2012-06-04
Packaged: 2017-11-06 19:46:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/422535
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bees_stories/pseuds/bees_stories
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Summary: After months as partners and flatmates, Sherlock has decided he can't deny he has deeper feelings for John. He wants a different sort of relationship, but he knows John has worked hard to suppress anything other than platonic affection. A leaking roof, a kidnapping case that takes them to Cardiff, and an awkward conversation gives Sherlock the opportunity he needs to make a fresh start.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Road

***

Sherlock stepped into flat and sighed. He was grateful to be home. After too much time spent on various forms of public transport he was weary and disinclined to investigate the sound of fans blowing from upstairs and the feeling of clammy damp that seemed to pervade the flat. No doubt either Mrs Hudson or John would explain in excruciating detail in due course. 

He went straight to his room, dropped his travel bag onto the floor, and began to strip. After nearly a week of sketchy sleep, most caught sitting upright, he wanted his bed. However when he went to draw back the covers and get in, it seemed that someone else had beaten him to it. 

Sherlock stared, nonplussed, at the blond head and bare shoulder that was nested among his sheets and duvet. For a moment he was sure he was hallucinating, he'd been thinking of John constantly during his travels, and under not dissimilar circumstances. Then his weary brain put the source of the fans and the damp together with John's presence and he knew he was letting romantic nonsense get the better of him. John wasn't sleeping in his bed because he was pining, he was there because the roof above his bedroom had leaked, and as far as he knew, Sherlock's bed would be safely unoccupied for at least several more days. Still, there was no denying his flatmate's presence was an opportunity to be exploited. John was curled on his side and situated far enough over on the mattress that there was room for two. Sherlock got into bed. 

He pulled the blankets and duvet over his shoulder, settled close enough he could feel John's body heat, and let the soft sound of his breathing soothe him. Outside, the moon broke through the last of the clouds sending a pale beam of light through the window. For a moment it was bright enough Sherlock could see the freckles that patterned John's skin before the moonbeam was obscured, sending the room back into shadows. 

He reached out, silently as a ghost, and almost but not quite caressed John's shoulder. He closed his eyes and imagined what it would be like if his fingertips were only a few millimetres closer. John's skin would be cool from exposure to the unheated air. The fine hairs would rise in response to the brief contact. He would shiver, but it wouldn't be from the cold, but from pleasure. 

Perhaps John would dislodge the duvet as he reacted. It would slip further down, exposing more of his skin. Sherlock would grow bold, and his touch would wander further over the warmth of his chest. He would brush his palm against the wiry hair that lay scattered over John's pectorals, and when he carefully scraped one of John's nipples with the blunt edges of his fingernails, it would harden and he would sigh with need.

"You're such a damn tease," John muttered. "Just touch me."

Sherlock's eyelids flew open. He'd got lost in the fantasy he was spinning. Fortunately, his fingers hadn't moved. They were still suspended just a few millimetres away from John's shoulder.

John shifted and Sherlock snatched his hand away. He watched John breathe, slow and steady, sleeping as deeply as he had when Sherlock first entered the room. He took a relieved breath. John was dreaming. But of whom?

He inched closer, hoping to hear more. John rolled onto his belly, burying his head against the pillow. He rubbed against the mattress and moaned, and the guttural sound fired Sherlock's imagination. He could feel his penis growing hard in response. Unbidden, his hand curled around it and his eyelids fluttered closed again from the brief pleasurable contact of his own palm against the hardening flesh as he squeezed. 

It would be so easy to reach for John, to press their bodies close and whisper all the irrational thoughts of love and affection that were fevering his brain. Perhaps John would think him mad, cracked from years of repressive behaviours, and he would recoil. There was the possibility he would react positively, utter a relieved, 'Thank God' and call him some ridiculous pet name.

He wondered if John used endearments. Would he call him 'darling' or 'sweetheart'? Would John write him poems full of sweet nothings as he did with his female lovers? Or would they remain themselves with this one thing changed between them? 

There were too many variables, too many unknown factors to solve the equation. Sherlock was tired and he found himself irritated as he often did when forced to deal with overt emotions. He decided to defer further thought until the morning. His erection still throbbed uncomfortably, but he ignored it. He closed his eyes and soon fell into a deep sleep.

***

"Oh Jesus! God! Sherlock! What are you doing here?"

Sherlock was awake, drowsing, and thinking about surprisingly little. It was a unexpected benefit of physical intimacy, one of which he hadn't been previously aware. He'd assumed love involved a constant obsession with the object of one's affection. Those he'd been exposed to, John among them, seemed to have the habit of droning on whenever they were smitten. But when John was lying in his arms, he felt peaceful and relaxed, as if the world and its trivial problems had nothing to do with him. It was probably the novelty of the situation, and like most novelties would fade in time, but for now he was enjoying the quiet. 

He opened his eyes. Despite his panicked exclamation John still lay sprawled, the weight of his head against Sherlock's chest, and his thigh against Sherlock's groin a comfortable burden. 

"I _was_ sleeping. Quite contentedly as it happens," he replied as John rolled off of him. He stretched his arms overhead as he rose and went to the wardrobe for his dressing gown. "Coffee?"

John gaped at him. In a curious respect, it was rather adorable. "Uh, yeah." 

"Make it strong," Sherlock said as he walked into the bathroom to start the shower. He stuck his head out the door and added, "It will help ward off the damp."

***

He was shuffling through the accumulation of several days worth of post when John made his appearance at the breakfast table. The ones addressed to him c/o Dr John Watson had been opened and prioritised by the Not Boring Scale. Two cases rated a seven and John had started background research on those, appending notes about the various players involved. A stack of emails had been similarly treated. Three letters addressed solely to him and marked _Personal and Confidential_ , were left unopened. One was a irksome matter of a routine nature from his solicitor, one was from a foreign minister soliciting his help on a matter of indiscretion, and the third was a fan letter. Sherlock glanced up casually to gauge John's appearance and found he seemed a bit wary as he helped himself to toast and coffee.

"About earlier," John said, sounding rather tentative. 

Downstairs, the front door opened and the sounds of workmen, and Mrs Hudson greeting them, carried up the stairwell. A moment later, they appeared. Two of the four repairmen paused long enough to gawp and then they shuffled away again. There was a second knock at the door that was followed a few moments later by the entrance of Mrs Hudson.

"This just arrived for Sherlock." She gave him a wide eyed look of surprise. "I didn't know you were back, dear," she said and then handed over the envelope.

"I arrived late last night," Sherlock replied. "There didn't seem to be a point to making you aware of my return when the morning would serve just as well." He slit open the envelope with paper knife and glanced over its contents. "Kidnapping. The kidnapper promised a ransom demand, but has made no further contact." 

"Oh, dear," Mrs Hudson said, and then drifted out of the room again as one of the builders called her name.

"Didn't they go to the police?" John asked. 

"The kidnapper instructed them not to and they obeyed." Sherlock handed the note across the breakfast table. "They did send a photograph and a lock of the daughter's hair by messenger to the father's work address to let the parents know they were serious."

From upstairs the sound of men at work began to filter through the ceiling. He glanced up, considering the relative annoyances of dealing with a distraught family versus the disruption of his household being invaded by workman, and decided of the two evils, the parents were probably the lesser. "Finish your coffee. We'll go over to Notting Hill and interview the parents there." 

He kept John busy on the cab ride over doing Internet research on the family whilst he called Lestrade and asked for details about the abduction. Two witnesses had seen the kidnapping and reported it to a constable, but when no one had been reported missing, the matter had been quietly shuffled to the bottom of the priority pile.

By the time they arrived, Sherlock had the basics. The father was a self made millionaire who owned a sweets factory. He met his wife when he hired her as a personal assistant and when they married, he kept her on as his managing secretary. One daughter, currently missing, aged sixteen. Abducted, according to the letter, off the high street. Lestrade helpfully provided a CCTV capture of the daughter being forced into a dark coloured transit van (blue, possibly black, according to the witnesses) by two men wearing Wallace and Gromit masks. The number plate was covered in mud, rendering it useless.

The grateful parents met them at the door of their ground floor Portobello Road maisonette instead of waiting for the housekeeper to seat them in the living room. She brought coffee and went away again, dabbing at her eyes with her apron in a display of upset that bordered on the histrionic. The McCalls were more circumspect in their grief, but there was a brittle air to the mother that suggested if the worst were to happen she might shatter. The father seemed bewildered. 

Sherlock let John take the lead, getting the parents settled and making the appropriate noises of concern whilst he made his initial observations of the family's life. The maid provided the mothering, the mother the structure, the father all the niceties. It took him less than a minute to get a feel for the family dynamics, but he let the McCalls rattle on for ten before he requested to see young Heather's room. 

Pastel yellow walls were covered with posters of bands that Sherlock had never heard of. John raised an eyebrow at the collection. The room itself was orderly. On the desk there were volumes of poetry by Coleridge and Percy Shelley, a computer, and a charging station for personal electronics. The charger held a mobile phone. "Was it usual for your daughter to leave the house without her mobile?" Sherlock asked. 

Mrs McCall shook her head. "Never. Heather was glued to that thing, day and night. I can't understand why she would have left it behind when she was going to meet up with her friends." 

"And the other device she normally carried?" Sherlock pointed to the empty space on the charger. 

"One of the MP3 whatsits," Mr McCall replied. "For music." 

"So she took her player but not her phone." Sherlock glanced up at the posters on the wall again. "Did Heather have a school bag or a satchel?" 

Mrs McCall did a quick check of the room. She frowned and pressed a call button wired next to the light switch.

The maid arrived, still dabbing her eyes, a few moments later. "Yes, Mrs McCall?" 

"Tina, is Heather's school bag downstairs?" 

The frown appeared to be contagious. "I don't believe so, ma'am. Let me look."

Tina went away again. Whilst she was gone, Sherlock moved on to the desk and the wardrobe. The desk contained school supplies, the computer was password protected, but Mrs McCall unlocked it with a few keystrokes. A calendar, heavily scheduled with appointments and obligations, appeared on the desktop. Sherlock raised an eyebrow but didn't comment. The rest of the files were boring. School assignments. Research for school assignments. The browser displayed nothing of interest whatsoever. 

In the wardrobe Sherlock found what he presumed was the usual collection of school uniforms, casual wear, and what would be considered clothing appropriate for Sunday Lunches with relatives. There were several empty hangers among the fashionably cut skirts and blouses. He considered a couple of the garments and saw wrinkles that suggested they had been worn in a substantially different manner than the designer intended, the collars folded sharply back to reveal more of young Heather's chest and the waistbands of the skirts rolled to hike them shorter. He pointed the empty hangers out to Mrs McCall whose frown got even deeper. 

He picked up the phone out of the charger and was unsurprised to find that it was locked. Unlocking it was a trifling matter, he cracked the code in two tries. He scanned the menu, rifled the photos first and then moved on. He found there was music loaded and brought up Heather's favourites play list. One band featured prominently. The same band had pride of place among the posters on the wall. He switched to the browser and did a search.

Tina burst in, out of breath and puzzled. "I've looked everywhere. The bag's not in the house. But I'm sure she had it when she came home from school." 

"I believe you'll find that Heather is in Wales." Sherlock handed the mobile with the screen displaying the details of a club date in Cardiff over to Mr McCall. It was all so tediously simple, even with the trappings of melodrama brought on by the faux-kidnapping.

"What?" The McCalls echoed one another in a befuddled chorus as Mrs McCall snatched the mobile out of her husband's hand.

"Maybe you better explain?" John suggested. 

Sherlock barely controlled his impulse to roll his eyes. "The kidnapping was a smokescreen. Unlike most of Heather's schoolmates, she has a curfew and there are other restrictions placed on her social life." He turned to the parents. "I assume you don't let her attend concerts at clubs."

"No, of course not." Mrs McCall seemed aghast at the notion. "We don't restrict the sort of music our daughter has access to, that would be unrealistic. But we do have some limits in place. Club gigs and concerts are off the table until she turns eighteen." 

Sherlock took the mobile back. He opened the photo file and flipped through the pictures until he came to a shot he'd noticed earlier. Heather and a boy of about eighteen or nineteen stood in front of a dark blue van. "I believe that's your kidnapper. Or more correctly, Heather's boyfriend. No doubt, she and their mates cooked up this little adventure. She'll show up tomorrow or the next day with some barely believable story about being dumped out of the van on a country road after the kidnappers decided collecting was more trouble than it was worth." 

"I don't believe you," Mr McCall said.

He had gone red in the face and clutched his chest in such a way that John's mouth drew down into concerned lines. He put his arm around the striken man and guided him to the neatly made bed. "Get him a glass of water," he said sharply to Tina. "Just bend your head over your lap." John guided him into position. "Deep breaths." John looked up and their eyes met. His expression seemed to be saying, _'you're sure about this?'_

Though he loathed the idea of another journey so soon after his return, a trip to Wales was an opportunity to be exploited. Cardiff was roughly two hours away by train and three by car. The parents would want to drive, and John would want to stay close to them to keep them calm. Once the missing Heather was returned safely to the bosom of her family and the McCalls were on their way to London again, he and John could have a celebratory meal and perhaps check into a hotel. "Perfectly. John and I will return to Baker Street. You may collect us there this afternoon." 

Mrs McCall nodded. John arranged a taxi and finalised the rest of their arrangements whilst Sherlock waited outside.

***

"Why are we doing this?" John asked as they motored back to Baker Street. "There are far more interesting cases and you want to go haring off to Wales over a rebellious teenager."

Sherlock looked up from his mobile. Having resolved the Heather McCall matter to his satisfaction, he was wrestling with the more pressing problem of how best to seduce John. He recalled the perfect hotel in a quiet district, and checked their availability. He was in luck and quickly made a reservation. The hotel was large enough not to be considered overtly romantic, but small enough that John wouldn't question why they'd been booked into one room. 

The restaurant was proving trickier. Their case would conclude in an area crowded with nightclubs and bars. If they walked further on they would find a variety of eateries, but Sherlock was leery of leaving such an important decision to chance. He glanced over at his companion, and considered the value of spontaneity. If too many plans were in place, John might feel as if he were being manipulated and that would make him wary and defensive. No, it was better to leave a few variables in the equation. 

Sherlock shrugged. "Creativity is such a rare commodity these days. I want to see with my own eyes a teenager bright enough to organise her own kidnapping for the sake of a night's entertainment. As for those other cases, the painting stolen from the museum is a fake. The original is in the collection of a private party in Moscow and has been for the last five years." 

Something clicked in his head about that particular art connoisseur. Though Sergei loved the works he owned and treated them with great care, he got bored easily and seldom held the paintings in his collection for more than a decade.

"Unless he decided to sell and there was some question as to the provenance of the picture. The fake hanging in Prague is excellent. I suspect that matter will be resolved without our involvement. As for the missing diamond necklace, it's an insurance swindle. There's a limited number of fences who can deal with stones of that size. There's no rush."

John seemed far from convinced. "It's not like you to turn away work." He examined Sherlock's face more closely. "You look tired. Are you sure you're all right?" 

Traffic snarled and a bicycle messenger dodged around the taxi. Sherlock looked out the window and stared unseeing at the city beyond. The last weeks had been draining. His reunion with Irene Adler had thrown his emotional state into something of a disarray, and finding the welcoming familiarity of Baker Street disrupted had been a disappointment.

"The truth be told, John, I am tired. A few days rest wouldn't go amiss." He got a sudden idea. "Why don't we pack for long weekend and see the sights of Cardiff as long as we're there?"

"Play tourist?" John said as the traffic began to move again. 

"If you like," Sherlock replied agreeably. He'd let John set the agenda, and even indulge his need to coddle. Playing tourist, as John so succinctly put it, would make an interesting change. 

John gave him another one of those odd, not quite suspicious looks. "Yeah. Okay. A holiday it is."

***

The trip to Wales promised to be every bit as tedious as Sherlock predicted. The McCall's owned a Range Rover and the atmosphere radiating from the front seat was stifling already as he and John loaded their travel bags in the cargo area and settled themselves in the passenger seat.

They exchanged glances.

John's said, _"Behave."_

Sherlock's said, _"Fine. But only because it will make you happy."_

He wondered briefly what would happen if he stretched out across the seat with his head in John's lap, the better to nap comfortably, but decided that eccentricity would only get him so far, and the McCalls were already teetering. He opted to loosen his safety belt to its extreme and sat sideways instead, earning a glare from John as he took up most of the space in the foot well. 

The McCalls had their own tête-à-tête, evidently they weren't completely convinced. Or rather Mr McCall was convinced and Mrs McCall wasn't, and they were still silently arguing about how they should best proceed. No doubt, Sherlock thought as he closed his eyes, that Mrs McCall was in favour of calling in the Welsh police to comb the city for their errant daughter, whereas Mr McCall just wanted to find the girl and get her home with a minimum of fuss. 

He ignored all of them, retreating to his Mind Palace to wander its halls. The last thing Sherlock heard before he shut the golden doors behind him was the sound of John's voice as he tried explain.

***

They arrived approximately an hour before the show was due to start. Mrs McCall parked some distance from the club so that there was no chance of the SUV being spotted. Patrons were already beginning to queue as they took up their observation point across the street.

"I still don't see her," Mrs McCall said as the bouncers started working the line, weeding out any undesirables they'd previously barred. 

'You're sure about this," John muttered. 

"Oh, ye of little faith," Sherlock replied. He stalked across the road, and heard, rather than saw, John step off the kerb to follow. 

The parents McCall had a rather fixed view of their daughter. None of the young women who chatted excitedly looked anything like the fresh-faced schoolgirl in her trim uniform. Sherlock scanned the heavily made up faces with their garish red or black lipstick and heavy-handed application of mascara and eye-liner, considering and discarding several possible candidates before he settled on his choice. "Heather?" he said in a breathless voice, much younger than his own. "Heather McCall, is that you?" 

A girl with crimson lips and a multitude of ratty blonde braids turned away from a trio of others and looked around for the person who called her name. Her expression grew increasingly puzzled as she scanned the crowd of club-goers. Seeing no one she recognised, she turned back to her friends.

"Shall we go, Miss McCall?" Sherlock said in his normal tone. "Your parents are waiting." He tapped the girl on her shoulder and then clamped down as she tried to bolt. He'd ignored the youths, the boyfriend and the other couple, and in retrospect that may have been an error. 

"Oi! Leave off!" Heather screeched. She fought his grasp like a wildcat. One scarlet claw came up to rake his face. John interceded, batting her hand away before it could do its damage. He pulled her arms behind her back into a police hold as the boys launched themselves at Sherlock and the McCalls came running, screaming their daughter's name. 

"That's enough of that." The bouncer's voice was wispy and soft, and completely at odds with its owner's burly appearance. Sherlock put his hands up and took a couple of backwards steps to show that he was merely defending rather than instigating the trouble. A second bouncer appeared in his line of sight, facing down the two boys who, now that Sherlock got a closer look at them, appeared to be closer to twenty-one rather than seventeen. 

For long seconds everything was chaos as John released a caterwauling Heather into the custody of her parents and her friends were bumped out of the line for causing a disturbance by the bouncers. 

"Mr Holmes?" the owner of the wispy voice said. "What are you doing in Cardiff?" 

"Charlie!" Sherlock smiled up at the man mountain who called his name. He stuck out his hand, and Charlie gave it a delicate shake. "How good it is to see you. You look well." 

"Oh, I is, Mr Holmes. Been doing right well since I got my life straight." He pointed at the club. "Got a legit job and everything." 

Sherlock remembered John and was unsurprised to see he appeared puzzled. "Charlie used to be a member of my London informants network. I'd heard he left the city, but no one seemed sure of the details." 

"Needed a change of air, Mr Holmes. A fresh start." 

"Good for you," John said.

His smile had a fixed quality which suggested he wasn't pleased, and belatedly, Sherlock remembered they were on a case, albeit at this point a boring one, and he needed to get back to his clients. "I've got to run along. But it was good to see you." They shook hands again and then Charlie went back to his obligations and Sherlock returned to his. 

"The family McCall reunited, I see," he said in a soft voice to John. The father had an arm around his daughter's shoulders. The wife stood straight backed and tense, her expression looked as if it had been carved from ice.

"I just wanted to go to the concert, Daddy," Heather whined petulantly. "They're playing their new album. The whole thing, from start to finish." 

"You can download it, sweetheart," he replied in a placating tone. "When you get home." 

"I don't think so," Mrs McCall interjected sharply. 

She looked like she might have a meltdown of her own right there on the street. Sherlock couldn't have that. Clients had a tendency not to pay when they got upset. That made John cross and then he started talking about charging retainers for service. 

"I'm sure you've all got a lot to talk about, and the best place for that is back at your hotel. If you don't mind, Mr McCall, John and I need to collect our bags and then we must be off. Pressing business." 

Mr McCall seemed to collect himself. He put a consoling hand on his wife's shoulder, silently urging her to keep her calm. "Girls, we can talk about this later." 

His wife shot him a daggered look, but nodded. "Come along, Heather." 

Heather McCall gave the now moving queue a last disheartened glance. The boyfriend stood apart from the rest, torn between following and going along with their friends who had been allowed back into line. "I'll get you a CD!" he called. "And have it signed!" 

Heather burst into fresh tears.

***

Even John seemed to feel it was a relief to get shot of the McCalls. He glanced around the hotel room with its single double bed and dropped his travel bag on the floor before flinging himself dramatically across the length and breadth of the mattress. "Some case! I think kidnappers would have been less traumatic."

"Glad we opted to make other plans rather than return to London with them?" Sherlock asked as he set his bag down next to the chair and inspected the room. It was more than adequate in size and appointed as comfortably as he remembered. 

"Oh God, yes," John replied emphatically. "Still, end of a case." He patted his breast pocket. Mr McCall had paid off in cash. "We've earned a celebration. What shall we do about supper?" 

Sherlock glanced at the clock. The restaurant downstairs was open, but only just. They could venture further afield, but he couldn't see the point of it. "Come on. We may have to use some of our earnings to bribe the kitchen staff, but the result will be worth it."

***

The results _were_ worth it. They were the only couple in the dining room, which lent a certain intimacy to the meal. An intimacy that was only furthered by the subdued ambient lighting and the flicker of a small votive candle that floated in a bowl of water.

"The kitchen was nearly shut," Sherlock explained as their server poured hearty red wine into a glass and offered it to John. "I told them we'd take whatever they could put together with a minimum of fuss." 

John took a tentative sip and then smiled as he took another larger swallow and extended the glass to be properly filled. "That's lovely, thanks." 

The server, mid-thirties, female, conventionally attractive, married, and irrelevant as long as she waited on them promptly and then made herself scarce, smiled at them both and then went away. 

John held out his glass. "To silly schoolgirls, and their rich fathers. May you always find them interesting. Cheers." 

Somehow that seemed doubtful, but Sherlock didn't begrudge John his toast. The Welsh hotel was an improvement over their wounded Baker Street flat. The crystal rang softly as he extended his glass and touched it against John's. "Cheers," he replied and then took his first sip of wine. It was good. A solid Willamette Valley Oregon Pinot Noir with a smooth finish. It would pair well with the rest of the meal. 

"Sherlock – " John sounded hesitant, drawing the syllables of his name out slowly as if he weren't entirely comfortable. "You never did say where you've been these last few days." 

Sherlock shrugged and drank some more wine. "I was doing a favour for an old adversary." 

His cryptic reply earned him a puzzled frown in reply. "You don't make sense," John said. "Why would you do a favour for an adversary?"

Sherlock shrugged again. "Because sometimes in my business, adversaries can later become allies, and allies are a useful commodity." The puzzled frown became a worried one. "Don't worry, John. I didn't do anything too illegal." He received an 'if you say so' sort of look in reply, and thought it best to change the subject, but he wasn't sure what to change the subject to. Normally, under these sort of circumstances, he'd just stop talking and let John take up the slack if he felt compelled to carry on a conversation. But John seemed ill at ease. Sherlock poured more wine into their glasses and willed their meal to hurry itself along. 

"Good thing you knew that bouncer," John said.

"Mm?" Sherlock had been thinking of the morning and how comfortable he'd been with John curled against him. "Oh, Charlie. Yes. An example of an adversary turned ally."

"Really?"

"He used to collect debts for a loan shark named 'Lucky' Louie Sallinger. Louie didn't care for me sticking my nose into his business and he sent Charlie around one night to sort me out. Charlie has mass, but I have speed and a knowledge of pressure points and physics." 

John gaped. "You … bested him?"

"Don't look so astonished." Sherlock bristled automatically at the slight to his prowess as a street fighter but continued his story. "Instead of holding a grudge, Charlie gave me a few pointers and I gave him a few, and after that Charlie was instrumental in helping me change Louie's luck." 

The savoury scent of beef wafted ahead of their dinner. John looked up and grinned. "Steak and chips? Oh perfect! I'm starving." 

Sherlock poured more wine and nodded when the server asked if he wanted another bottle. 

They turned their attention to the food in front of them. Sherlock cleared his plate methodically, but he made a point to keep an eye on John's wine glass and topped it off at regular intervals. He was less generous with his own portion, drinking enough to keep in the spirit of a celebratory meal, but not so much he would lower his inhibitions to the point of recklessness. He asked about the roof at Baker Street and got a long and involved tale of a fierce storm, flying roof slates, and an indoor waterfall a foot from John's bed in reply.

He felt John's eyes upon him and looked up to meet the questing gaze. "What is it?" 

John shook his head. "Nothing." He toyed with the stem of his wineglass for a moment and then when Sherlock tried to top it off, he put his hand over the glass. "No thanks, I think I've had enough." 

Sherlock had the impression that his companion had worked something out, but couldn't make sense of his conclusions. Something akin to puzzlement drew his face into unhappy lines. "John?"

He picked up the nearly empty bottle and emptied it into Sherlock's glass. "Later. This was a nice meal. I don't want to spoil it." 

They finished their steaks in silence, skipped dessert, and went back to their room.

***

John came out of the bathroom to find Sherlock already tucked up in bed. Rather than getting in beside him, he folded his arms over his chest and leaned against the dresser. "What's going on?"

He knew, of course, to what John was referring, but Sherlock looked around the room as if perhaps he'd missed something important. "I don't follow."

John pushed off the dresser and started to pace. "You. This room. That bed." He hadn't had enough alcohol to be overtly impaired, but his fine motor control was a bit off and his gesticulations as he pointed were larger than he might normally use. He looked at the floor and finally said, "Last night."

Sherlock knew it was too much to hope that one night together would be enough and that John's resistance would crumble from sheer inevitability, so he'd kept his companion running from pillar to post all day as they dealt with the rigours of an emotional case and then topped it off with a good meal and lots of wine to help him wind down, hoping that if his body was tired then his mind might be dulled as well and they could avoid a lot of tedious talk. He gave John a blank look, shut out the lamp, and then rolled over onto his side.

John stood in the darkness. Sherlock could hear his breathing, and the frustration he was venting. Five minutes passed by. John shifted from foot to foot. He paced the room. He even went as far as pulling his travel bag from the wardrobe and undoing the zip before he sighed loudly and got into bed. 

"All right. I can understand about last night. I guess. I was in your bed and you came home. You'd been on the road. You were tired. So you got in not caring whether I was there or not. You do that sort of thing, I should be used to it by now. And as for booking in here where we had to share again … you said you've stayed here before and that you liked it. The food is good. The room is nice. You're a creature of habits. You could have booked some place else, but that would mean looking around and you won't if you don't have to." 

In the darkness, Sherlock smiled as he listened to John try and work out the scenario to his satisfaction. He was disappointed by the amount of rationalisation that was being imposed, but had to admit that John had been given no reason to suspect that there were romantic inclinations at work. Sherlock wondered if perhaps it wasn't time to correct that misconception. 

"John, how did you sleep last night?" 

The bed shifted as John rolled over onto his side. "Fine." He hesitated and then reiterated. "I slept fine." 

"And my presence," Sherlock said. "I realise you were startled upon finding me, but was it objectionable?"

John drew a breath, and then another. It was obvious he was close to being spooked, and Sherlock was forced to conclude that perhaps he was moving too fast. "Not objectionable. No." 

"Then I fail to see the issue." 

"The issue is – " John broke off. The mattress shifted again as he rolled over onto his back, dug his head against his pillow, and then rolled back onto his hip again. "The issue is … I don't know what the issue is! Yes, I do. The issue is I don't understand. What do you want, Sherlock?"

Sherlock considered and then decided that honesty would be the most straightforward approach. "For the moment, I would be quite content to go to sleep." 

"And if we woke up the same way as this morning?" John pressed. 

As he rolled onto his back, Sherlock pulled the duvet and blankets over his shoulders, warding away the slight chill that pervaded the room. "Then I think I would prefer less shouting. It rather spoils the mood." 

"The mood." In the darkness, Sherlock watched as John repeated the words a second time to himself. 

"Hmm." Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling as if he'd won a small victory. He enjoyed the challenge of a dogged pursuit and knew it would take time to wear down John's bullheaded resistance, resistance that he had encouraged with his own standoffishness. But he had changed his mind, and he knew with persistence, John could be persuaded to do the same. It would just take patience and time, and he had plenty of both.

end


End file.
